Don't Mess With America
by FeliceWZ
Summary: So, it's 1945 and the Second World War isn't even close to its end, with Nazi Germany mysteriously having regained all of his early strength. Since France and England are indisposed, Russia and America are the only Allies left for the meeting, Russia not being particularly glad about having to face America's annoyingness all alone. But things aren't as fine for him as they seem...


DON'T MESS WITH AMERICA

Russia was sitting in the boardroom alone and feeling somewhat mocked. He had little patience to begin with, at least under the Generalissimo's education, but that America should dare to keep him waiting for 53 minutes now? It was outrageous. This was a meeting of the Allied Forces. This was World War II. This was even more serious than it had been until Stalingrad, now that Germany had miraculously recovered the strength to launch Blitzkrieg-like offensive battles again, and he was winning.

That France couldn't attend the meeting was obvious – he was completely under Germany's control now and close to dying. England also was in a pinch; from what Russia could recall, he was wounded severely, but still doing a decent job at fighting off Germany in comparison to his awful condition, if America could be trusted. It wasn't like Russia really cared or anything since he was sure that he'd be able to defeat Germany all on his own anyway, but those two had an excuse. America did not.

Russia shook his head in contempt. He had briefly considered that something had happened to his unloved ally, that he'd been attacked or something, but in this case, he would have definitely been sent a telegram; if not by America, which was likely, then by his own people. So this must be either a deliberate gesture of "Fuck you", or America being simply dumb as a brick and having forgotten or overslept the appointment. It admittedly always was somewhat hard to decide between those two options when it came to America, but in this case, Russia went for the "Fuck you" gesture one, his mood having dropped appropriately.

He just couldn't believe that at a time like this, America could possibly be as unconsiderate as to forget something this important. When England had passed out at the meeting two months ago, America had finally seemed to understand that this was, yes, indeed, serious, life-threatening business, judging from the stunned, somewhat scared look on his face and the amount of attention he was now paying to England.

To Russia, it seemed far more likely that America had simply wanted to warn him – as though to say "hey, we may be allies, but that doesn't mean that you're important to me or that I'm depending on you"; especially when he remembered the (however passive) role that England played in this: America might be sulking because whereas his concern for England was very high, Russia simply fulfilled his duty by sticking to the agreements they'd made when England had still been able to talk without the sounds of him coughing up blood or enemy fire and screaming in the background obscuring his voice. In the last years, it hadn't looked like the old ties between the former Empire and his former colony were considerably strong or tight, but apparently, Russia had been mistaken at that.

He shot an icy glance at the large clock ticking above the front door. It was now precisely one minute to 4 PM, and the meeting had been scheduled at 3 PM. Not out of friendliness, but so he couldn't be blamed later, Russia decided to wait for the remaining sixty seconds, then fly back to what had once been his younger sister's realm. After all, it wasn't like he wasn't involved in this war and could afford to sit around on some island for as long as it pleased America to keep him waiting.

And suddenly the monotonous ticking noise was indeed joined by the heavy tapping of feet approaching outside. A few seconds later, America lazily kicked open the door and entered.

"Sorry Russia, I couldn't make it earlier!", he said with a smile and indicated a salute, like he would usually have done, but something was wrong. His movements lacked their normal hyperactive energy, his beaming smile didn't look beaming, but pasted on, and it seemed to flicker, his voice was a notch too high and cracky to appear light-hearted and his usually tall and upright figure that sometimes even rivalled Russia's had made way to a lowered head, slouched shoulders and weak legs. He was under disguise, and a really bad one, too: Apparently something had happened to him after all, Russia observed with the slightest bit of cynicism.

America uttered something along the lines of "God, I'm exhausted", pulled over the closest chair with shaking hands and slumped down on it, naturally not without making noise, watched closely by Russia, who was growing more amused with every second, but remained quiet and smiling coldly and calmly, as usual.

America looked really miserable; now that he was sitting, or rather cowering, it was even more significant. His clothing was in a horrible state, pockets open, stained, with scorch marks and little tears, covered in thick, beige dust like everything else about him, he was wearing the Air Force jacket of some unfortunate sergeant by the name of Anthony Berger, his hair was a crazy, dishevelled mess, and his eyes were unnaturally wide and glassy from the adrenaline that must be rushing through his veins, with red rims and bags below them. Even his glasses were dirty and looked like someone had trodden on them.

After several minutes had passed and the corners of Russia's mouth slowly began to hurt and feel slightly tense from the constant smiling, America managed to look up with fluttering eyelids like he was fainting and inhaled deeply, making Russia very curious about what horrible thing could have happened that even America was having problems to say out loud.

But the minutes passed, and America's condition didn't seem to improve towards the talkative, forcing Russia to take the initiative. "What's happened, America?", he ventured.

America's eyes met his for a second's. Finally, he announced so silently that Russia barely caught it: "England's dead."

"That truly is to be regretted.", Russia replied with about as much real empathy as a stone might have, but America barely noticed.

He had lowered his face again so that strands of his hair were hiding the largest part of it, but Russia nevertheless noticed him biting his lower lip and his hunched shoulders trembling heavily and how the sound of his breathing had suddenly changed to what sounded like strangled sobs. Maybe America was hyperventilating from the tension and pressure of being at war or… he was crying.

"America.", Russia said coolly at some point, maybe a minute or so later.

The only reaction coming from America was him halting his breath to hide it. Like Russia was so stupid. Then he suddenly spoke up, but not the way Russia had hoped he would. "I don't get this.", he said, blinking. "I mean, it's not like I was really still pissed about that stuff with my Independence War and all. We weren't, like, all close, but we got along okay, most of the time anyway."

Russia didn't answer. This sounded like it was becoming a monologue, which was annoying on the one hand, because knowing America, he might end up talking forever, but on the other hand, it was kind of nice to listen to him. In some way, it fluttered him that America had (though involuntarily) chosen him as the person on whose shoulder he was crying. Not literally, of course, that would have been disgusting.

"I was already surprised at that meeting when he suddenly fainted. I did know that he'd been under attack for a few days – or weeks, whatever – but I thought he'd cope and, you know, call out for help when he needed it. But then his head suddenly fell on the table with that loud thump. At first I thought he'd fallen asleep or something and I was already gonna punch his side and say something like _Hey, it's no time for sleeping right now, you should know that_, you know, but then I saw the blood dripping out of his mouth onto the table… God, that was just horrible!"

America looked at Russia desperately, blinking tears away again, looking for comfort and mutual horror in the other's eyes. However, there was only purple blankness to be found, so he went on.

"I tried to shake him awake, but it didn't work, so I called his guys and told them to pick him up and bring him back, but they said they couldn't because they'd just received word that they shouldn't return under any circumstances. So I was gonna take him with me, but then he woke up and said that he wanted to go back home – that was literally what he said. I was so terrified at that moment – you know, he was bleeding and limp and all pale and I had to keep slapping him to keep him awake, and his eyes… he was looking at me, but not really looking, like he was seeing straight through me, like I wasn't even there… that really gave me a fright."

_You voluntarily admit being frightened? You, of all people?_ Russia couldn't help but be impressed. Not that he didn't look like it, but… America must be shaken to his core, else he wouldn't have lost so much of his composure. Though somewhat adorable, it was ridiculous to be so touched by the fate of someone who was merely an ally, a friend at best – with himself it was something different, of course, Ukraine and Belarus were his sisters. Besides, he wasn't being such a sissy. He was putting up heavy resistance, and when he'd received news of their fall, he had not run around and cried like a lost child. Like the lost child that America now was, as it occurred to him.

At that meeting, England had really been in an awful state, though. The days when he'd been dangerously strong were over for some time now, but although his attire had never lost its – though well-hidden – wicked, cunning, power-hungry spark that in time of war easily grew into a large wildfire, he'd come to be very calm, reserved and rational on the outside – someone who would never allow himself to do trivial, graceless things like simply losing his conscience. When precisely that happened, it naturally had been shocking. However, what had been even more unsettling, probably also to America, was the quiet resolve with which he'd asked to be taken back to London after he'd finally woken up, the subtext of course being "I want to die at home".

Well, that wish had been granted, Russia couldn't help but remark to himself, of course without showing any of it. For all that he could see of America's condition right now, he probably might also just have said it out loudly, it wouldn't have earned more than a tiredly outrageous "you're a damned bitch" from America's side – in case he didn't fail to notice the cynicism, that was.

But Russia refrained from doing so and instead stayed sitting at the table, his hands crossed neatly on the polished surface, everything about him motionless and quiet – the coldish smile, his upright, tall posture. The only signs of life that could be found about him were the movements of his chest with his slow and regular breath. He wasn't even blinking, only intently listening to and watching America's shaky remnants, taking in the childish-seeming but sincere emotions that he kept spilling without any care or control, that he'd been denied for the sake of having been forced to grow up far too quickly under the rule of emperors of which each seemed more of a megalomanic lunatic (and proud of it) than the next one.

America had long since gone on talking, like the talking did any good at all. Russia guessed that he was now explaining under what circumstances he'd come to London yesterday only to witness England's death, but that wasn't really so interesting. Russia himself had seen so many people – close to him or not – dying and hovering on the brink of it that he couldn't be shocked with it anymore, yet to America, this was most likely the first time in his short life that he'd seen someone perish – not just pass away, like humans did, not just fall into that comatose trance like conquered nations did (which actually could be more scaring than death, if you had to see said conquered nations still walk and talk, but entirely lacking any will of their own, being mere puppets of whoever was the conqueror), like Belarus and Ukraine and Poland, for example, had done, and like France was very close to doing. That was just a pre-stage.

When a nation died like England had died, it was a complete entity mercilessly being wiped out of existence, without leaving behind more than the lightest trace, another scratched line on the rock of history that would only be washed away by more time passing. There was simply nothing left that could make up a nation: The land and cities were destroyed, burnt, vast and echoing with the sound of foreign footsteps and the people, along with the culture, had been successfully extincted. What should England furthermore be consisting of? There weren't even pieces. In less than a day, there wouldn't even be a corpse because the process of decaying was sped up so rapidly in order to unite with the land again.

There was America, though, America being young and unable to understand and marvellously desperate, America with shattered hopes and memories and illusions that he was grieving for so boundlessly, like Russia never could be. Innocent, thoughtless, impulsive America.

Somehow all those negative, childish traits suddenly seemed so admirable to Russia. It wasn't like he'd never noticed their presence before; in fact, quite the opposite was the case as Russia had always found America's behaviour to be a nuisance, and back home in the Kremlin, they had used to make jokes about it for such a long time now that he could hardly remember when it had begun. The difference was just that now, in this situation, he felt that this utter lack of self-control might in truth be an advantage. Although Russia's way naturally still was the better one; most importantly, it lacked that distinct American-ness, and secondly, you could simply not afford living your feelings as a nation if you ever wanted to accomplish something, as he told himself.

America was capable of letting it out, accepting and living his feelings, instead of piling them up in some deeply hidden chamber of his subconscience like Russia did. Of course; if he had ever dared to run up to Stalin crying because Ukraine had been conquered and expecting comfort… he did not want to picture the outcome. With America, this was something entirely different, something that made him… oddly valuable and important. It increased Russia's level of respect for him.

He played around with the thought for a short while, then its disturbingness suddenly struck him like a hand grenade, the pressure wave of the explosion catapulting him back into reality where there was a world war going on and America trying to overcome his trauma.

His way of speaking had changed, though; the desperate, hasty, incomprehending note of his voice had dropped to sad, resignating desillusion. "…'f course I was gonna take him to a hospital over at my place, I insisted on it, really, and I almost picked him up and carried him to my plane on my back, and if I'd had to use force on him, or been overstraining myself, whatever. But the way he was looking at me and just said _Would you please leave me here, America_ – kinda like on that conference, and then again not at all like then."

America frowned, trying to make out what had been the difference and to recollect his memories despite the pain they must be bringing up. Suddenly a small, inappropriate laugh escaped him.

"That was so totally like him – you know, not even when he's on the verge of dying, he forgets to add a nice, polite _would you please_ to make it seem like he was asking for something, not demanding it. – I think that's the thing too with that conference… when he fainted and I barely got him back conscious, he wasn't all there; he was hardly able to speak properly. I mean… when he…"

America shortly stopped to recollect himself.

"When he passed away, he wasn't able to speak properly either, I had to lean in real close so I could even hear him, but he was clear about it. He wanted that, and _bam_, that was it. That… determination you'd call it, I guess, also was what made me do as he'd said – that and I'd… I'd had this feeling that it'd be wrong to take him away now, you know? I wasn't thinking anything, like, _oh my God, he's gonna die every second, let him rest in peace_ or something, the thought of taking him away just didn't feel like what right thoughts should be feeling like. So… I left him there. To… die. Alone."

America allowed himself a short break in which he swallowed and turned to look directly at Russia, seeming very nervous all of a sudden. "Was I wrong about that? – I mean, everyone tells me how I don't have no empathy and social skills and stuff, but… hey, when babies are born, nobody teaches them to breathe and they still do it because their instincts tell them so, and it's _right_ too… D'you get what I'm saying?"

Russia took a while to realise that an answer was expected of him now. This was no miracle; during the last half hour, this was the first time for America to actively and consciously address him other than a casual "you know?", and it also was the first time that he felt… unsettled. Kind of unwell.

He simply didn't know how to respond. First, there was the question to solve whether he should be honest and friendly to America – or whether he should use the opportunity to gain some valuable power over him by manipulating him, telling him that he'd betrayed England and was at least partially responsible for his death and thus planting a seed of guilt so deeply into him that it would take years of psychotherapy to tear it out again? And given that he was going to be honest and friendly to America, what could he possibly say?

Russia himself wouldn't know. There was no _right_ or _wrong_. There wasn't anything to go by, actually. There were just basic instincts, like in that somewhat out-of-place analogy with the breathing babies.

Aware that he was watched as closely by America now as it had been vice versa before, he wiggled about the problem for some time, then he finally shrugged shortly and heavily, not only because it was such a difficult issue, but also because he knew that he was making himself extremely vulnerable by taking off that mask of pretending to know everything. He was tearing down a wall between them for some reason that he had been very glad to exist. Stalin was going to kill him if he ever found out.

"I can't say.", he admitted. Although it seemed unbelievable that he was still smiling, his smile had a tad of a real expression on it now, of pity. "If it felt right, it probably was right, _da_… you'd have to ask England."

America nodded silently, pressing his lips together so that they formed a narrow line. "Thanks.", he eventually managed to say, however keeping his gaze fixed on the floor.

"You know, I'm confused.", he suddenly added in a low voice, still not looking at Russia, but clearly talking to him now. "I wonder whether he's – whether he _was_ still pissed about my revolution and all that. And whether he thought that I was. 'Cause… I really liked the old man, I just never told him so frankly. We got along okay, I guess, but I get along just as okay with… oh, you name it, France, for example. And that's cool and all because France helped me a lot when I needed it, in wars and stuff, but it's still not the same. And now I'm afraid that… oh God, that is sounding more pathetic than anything else I've ever heard before. It's…"

He broke off, searching for the best way to put it without making it sound weird or ridiculous, his blood-shot eyes flickering across the room. Eventually he sighed with an air of annoyance.

"Ah, just… you know, just forget about it. It's not that important anyway, really.", America went on, trying to undo what private, ridiculous, sentimental thought he'd just shared without even pronouncing it, but of course it was futile, so he had to resort to staring at the ground even more intensely than before and exhaling sharply.

Meanwhile, Russia had become very interested. What America had narrowly kept himself from asking loudly was whether England had known how precious he had actually been to America, of course. That was the easy part. The interesting part was – couldn't it be "that" kind of affection? Did America himself even know what it was? Probably not.

However, it wouldn't be too surprising if that actually was to be the case; England had played a highly, if not the most important role in America's life, it was evident from the state of shock that England's death had put him in. And even though their relationship had included a certain amount of violence and they were adoptive siblings, the example of Belarus had taught Russia long ago that even actual familial bonds didn't have to be an obstacle, and despite the opposite seeming the more rational option, Russia didn't think of America as more sane or rational than his possessive little sister.

On the other hand – there were nations in which the issue wasn't really paid any attention, there were nations in which homosexuality was objected… and then there was America (also Germany, as a matter of fact, but that had nothing to do with what Russia was intending to say, so he quickly dismissed the thought). So if America's relations to England had been "special", and if only unrequited, and he was aware of it, he must be hating himself now.

He shot a brief glance at America again. He was appearing calmer now than before, less shocked, less agitated, very resignative, exhausted and sad instead. He was fidgeting around with his dog-tag listlessly, staring out of the window into the bright-gray sky with a reminscing, thoughtful expression, probably sunk into memories.

Nearly perfect silence dominated the large boardroom, as both of the nations were sitting at the table absent-mindedly, each musing about what had just come up in their own way, the only sounds that could be heard being America's slow, shallow breath and the equally regular ticking of the clock, but they blended in with the atmosphere so well that neither one of the men paid them any attention.

Thus it was even the eerier when America suddenly began to hum silently, a short, simple nursery rhyme-like melody to soothe himself, his cracked voice adding to the awkward creepiness he created unintentionally.

Russia looked up in alerted surprise. His first thought was that America had at last lost his mind; it certainly seemed like it considering his thousand-yard stare; Russia wasn't sure that America was actually hearing himself or did realise that he was singing in the first place, and neither was he sure whether it would be a good idea to interrupt him.

Then again, as much as it would have interested him, he couldn't spend all day inside America's intimate sphere. "America", he said. He had done that in order to force America back into reality from wherever he'd been (Russia did honestly not want to know the abysses of America's psyche) often within the previous hour, far more often than he was comfortable with. He was not America's baby-sitter, and he'd better not adopt that position. The less emotional attachment they had to each other, the better it was for the years that still were to come, the years after the war when they would inevitably have to face the other as arch enemy.

But America apparently couldn't be bothered with any such practical, rational thoughts like that he had still people to defend and a highly infuriating Germany to crush. It was like Russia hadn't spoken at all – it was like he didn't exist to America, who was just gaping at the greyishly clouded sky and chanting his lullaby.

Russia could now choose from two options: Either he left America to himself and went back to his own land to care about his own business, maybe alert one or two of his comrades so he wouldn't be forgotten completely. Or he stayed until America appeared sane enough to find home on his own. Both options had their disadvantages – if Stalin were to find out about his near-fraternisation with America, it would not bid well for him, and even so he might miss important events in his Great Patriotic War. And if America were left to his own devices now, his curiosity would never be satisfied.

If Russia was a honest man, he would right away have admitted to himself that there had hardly ever been any doubt about what he was going to do. Of course he stayed with America, for several reasons – he longed for a little closure no matter how futile, he really was curious about America's inside, and he could easily disguise what was going on. Besides, later on, he would always have the perfect excuse of only having been collecting information about his suspicious ally, _da_?

So, pulling himself together, he stood up and walked around the table, not without having pushed his chair back to it before. America had not moved an inch, he hadn't even blinked, and it took a second look to determine that he was still breathing.

With an incredible amount of discipline and self-control, Russia reached out and touched America's shoulder lightly, barely grazing it through the leather of his glove and America's jacket.

America's breath hitched to become only more unsettlingly shallow, and his glassy, de-focused eyes widened. At least he had stopped singing – if that deserved to be called singing. "Shush", he whispered to himself, continuing in such a deep, slurred slang that Russia had a hard time understanding him, fidgeting frantically with his fingers. "Shush, yer gonna be jus' fine, everything's gonna be okay if you'll jus' calm down, yeah? Jus' calm down, calm down now. He's dead, there's nothing you can do about it, so don't think about that now, that's right, don't you think about it."

"America?", Russia interfered. This was truly scary. Not simply frightening, making him a little squirmy. There were few situations that managed to induce that kind of small, harmless fear within him. But America losing it so obviously and hopelessly, America who was so proud of not being whiny like that, America, whom he'd imagined to be the last person apart from himself who might lose control like that, America talking to himself in that increasingly high-pitched, hoarse, agonised voice, America of all people being so helpless that he had to comfort himself like that not to give in to his despair and pain – that was an image that might well be haunting his dreams if he didn't cut it off right now.

"America!", he repeated, stepping in front of him, but America was caught up in his own, terrible world. Russia wasn't likely going to succeed if he just stood there and shouted at him. He definitely did not at all like where this was going. It was still possible for him to go home and pretend he'd never stayed so long, but… no.

After he'd inhaled deeply, he raised his right hand with great reluctance, and slapped America across the face. He briefly noticed America opening his eyes wide, blinking, and the next thing he knew was the back of his head hitting the floor as he'd fallen onto his back, America looming over him, face contorted by hate. Just in time he managed to shift to one side before he heard the _thunk_ of knuckles crushing against the floor above his left shoulder, probably hard enough to fracture his skull if America hadn't missed.

"Son of a bitch", America hissed, his large eyes gleaming brightly crystal blue – the sort of bright crystal blue that said very clearly _I am going to kill you_.

_Blyad'_. Russia saw America swinging wide, moved out under him as fast as he could and tried to get to his feet, but America had grabbed the end of his scarf and pulled him back down – God, the boy was strong. However, Russia managed to take advantage by turning around and using the impact of his fall to get America down on the floor, slamming his elbow into his stomach and landing his other arm on America's chest. He could feel America's attempt to struggle free even as he lay there barely able to breathe, with eyes squeezed shut from the pain, but he was too weakened for the moment.

"Keep nice and still, _da_?", Russia said, somewhat short of breath too. He leaned forward so he could hold down both of America's arms and stared at him. "I'm not Germany. I'm Russia, your ally. Now come to your senses again, will you?"

America groaned angrily, then blinked. His glasses had got lost sometime during their short fight. For a second he looked confused, then memory seemed to return to him and his eyes narrowed. "Let me go.", he demanded icily.

He appeared to have come back to reality, so Russia did as he was told and stood up, stepping back while America slowly came to his feet. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps and he was standing slightly doubled over, one hand clutching his stomach where Russia had hit him, but he was already capable of taking a few steps to pick up his glasses and put them on again, then he went straight to the door without giving Russia so much as another glance. Another thing he needed to keep in mind – either the boy had absolutely excellent regenerating abilities, or he had unbreakable determination, because a normal human would hardly be able to stand after having suffered a blow like that. Probably both.

"Where are you going?", Russia asked. It was a rather dumb question, but he'd noticed that too late.

"The son of a bitch is fuckin' going _down_.", America declared in a low, threatening voice, once again not making it clear whether he was talking to Russia or to himself. The last thing Russia saw of him before he left were unnaturally widened eyes glistening brightly crystal blue and a teeth-baring, joyless grin.

Germany was going to beg for death.

Yeah. Just to erase any doubts, I am not a nazi, I despise them more than I have ever despised anything, and I do not support Nazi Germany. I just made him strong again because when Germany was attacking England in 1941, Russia wasn't yet a member of the Allies, and in order to set my plot in WW3, there would have been too much explaining.

Yes, there is both implied USUK (though I think of them more as vice versa) and Russia/America, you read right. When I started out, this wasn't even meant to be from Russia's perspective, I was going to switch when America had his first breakdown, but it kinda stuck and I'm kinda happy with that. It's such an unusual point of view for this sort of storyline.

I hope that I managed to pull off their changes of mind somewhat credibly, and that America's exit was badass enough; this is the first time that I actually manage to finish such a dark fic, so I'm really inexperienced with it, and I generally don't think I'm good at portraying emotions... meh. By the way, I really don't think you should mess with America (neither of them, but yeah). Beware the yandere.

Concrit and reviews will be heartily welcomed :)


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